


It Takes a House

by Evandar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, POV Pansy Parkinson, Pregnancy, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Suspicions, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 10:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: Her first thought, actually, when she did figure it out, was that Millie was the stupid one for not keeping her legs closed and for letting herself get knocked up before graduation. She’d thought, briefly, about telling someone and letting events play out as they would. Millie would be expelled and the child would…Pansy isn’t sure, actually. The Bulstrodes aren’t as Dark as some families, and magical blood is precious, after all – but certainly, Millie would never see Theo again, and that was what had kept Pansy’s mouth shut in the end.





	It Takes a House

Pansy taps her fingers lightly against the bathroom door. Inside, she can hear Millie being sick. Again. It’s been like this every morning since they returned from the Yule holidays and Pansy knows what it means. She isn’t _stupid_.

Her first thought, actually, when she did figure it out, was that Millie was the stupid one for not keeping her legs closed and for letting herself get knocked up before graduation. She’d thought, briefly, about telling someone and letting events play out as they would. Millie would be expelled and the child would…Pansy isn’t sure, actually. The Bulstrodes aren’t as Dark as some families, and magical blood is precious, after all – but certainly, Millie would never see Theo again, and that was what had kept Pansy’s mouth shut in the end. 

Theo and Millie have been sweet on each other for as long as she’s known them. They’re _adorable_ , and every inch of Pansy’s otherwise cold, black heart knows that there’s something special there. And yes, fine, she’s jealous of that something special, but if there’s one thing that she learned during the war it’s that life is precious and that – sometimes – keeping things hidden from the authorities is the right thing to do.

She taps again on the wood. She doesn’t let Millie get more than two words into her reply before she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

Millie, crouched awkwardly next to the toilet, halfway to her feet, mumbles something like “in a minute, oh hell” and finishes pushing herself up. 

She looks like crap. 

Pansy knows that it’s silly, but she’s spent a good portion of her life believing that – as a pureblood witch from a good family – her duty in life is to give her future husband heirs. Her mother has spent long hours extolling the virtues of such an existence, promising Pansy nine months of rich hair and glowing skin and a lifetime of dutiful bliss. Looking at Millie now, all Pansy can think is that she was such a naïve little bint to believe that her mother might have been right about that when she was wrong about so many other things. Millie is pale and haggard, her hair is a bedraggled mess, and all-told she looks more like she’s received a death sentence than anything that could be construed as joyous.

“Does Theo know?” Pansy asks quietly.

Millie nods. She flushes the toilet and walks to the sink, and Pansy watches as she splashes water on her face and brushes her teeth. On the other side of the door, she can hear Daphne and Tracey stirring, and she knows that they too are going to figure things out soon if they haven’t already. 

Millie spits white foam into the sink and wipes her mouth on a towel. “So how long do I have to pack, do you reckon?”

“Couple of weeks?” Pansy replies. “I’ve not told anyone.”

Millie looks sceptical, and it takes actual effort not to get offended by that. She is, after all, not far wrong. Pansy _had_ been going to tell. It’s not like she and Millie have ever been close; certainly she’s got no reason to keep Millie’s secrets aside from a very new and very uncomfortable sense of altruism.

“I’m not _going_ to tell anyone, either, though I’d recommend that you say something to Tracey and Daphne before they figure it out too – and you know they will, so stop looking at me like that.”

It takes a moment, but Millie’s expression moulds itself into something less baffled. “I…don’t think I understand,” she says quietly.

Pansy takes a deep breath. It’s hard to be nice; it’s harder, she’s learned, to be alone.

“I’m not going to say anything because you and Theo and your ridiculously saccharine relationship are almost enough to make me believe in true love,” she says. Millie’s eyebrows rise in disbelief, but Pansy continues regardless. If she _doesn’t_ say this, she’s going to regret it possibly for the rest of her life. “And because we’re Slytherins. We stick up for each other because no one else will, and it’s about time that we – that _I_ , sorry – proved that we’re capable of that.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning that if you don’t want to be expelled, you’re going to need to hide Baby Nott from the rest of the world until after the NEWTs, and I’m offering to help you.” That last part comes out in something of a rush and it must take a moment for it to sink in because there’s a long pause before Millie exhales softly.

There’s a knock at the door. Pansy finds herself staggering forwards as magic propels it open for the second time that morning, and she turns just in time to see Daphne slip her wand back up her sleeve. 

“Have we finished telling Millie that she’s pregnant, yet? Only we’re going to be late for breakfast if you take much longer and –“

“And Tracey needs to pee,” Tracey cuts in, slipping past Daphne as she speaks. “So if you want to discuss the next generation of superior pureblood genetics, can you do it out there?”

Pansy blinks but finds herself obeying. Obnoxious halfblood she may be, but Tracey is vicious with a wand. Besides, Millie has gone back to grumbling under her breath and Daphne is smiling like a crocodile and there’s an odd sensation building in Pansy’s chest. It feels…shiny. Buoyant, almost, and it’s only when she realises that she’s smiling that she understands what it is.

Hope.

…

They hold a meeting that evening in the boys’ dormitory. It’s downright scandalous for them to be there, but the younger years don’t say a word and, once the door is shut behind them, Pansy can’t help but feel a little underwhelmed and more than a little sad.

There are five beds in the boys’ dormitory. Only three of them are occupied. She perches awkwardly on the edge of Draco’s bed and wonders if the other Houses have to live with relics of their dead as well, or if this particular cruelty is reserved for Slytherins. The other girls filter awkwardly into the room, Millie curling up with Theo, while Blaise makes room for Daphne and Tracey to sit next to him.

Crabbe and Goyle’s beds remain untouched, sacred; a fine layer of dust powders the green velvet of their bedcurtains, and if it weren’t for the need for absolute privacy, Pansy would have stood up and insisted that they meet in the library or one of the study rooms instead. 

“Not that the company isn’t lovely,” Blaise drawls, “but what are you all doing here?”

They should have a NEWT in Awkward Silences, Pansy thinks. They’d get Outstandings, the lot of them. 

In the end, it’s Theo who breaks it. He’s visibly nervous, and he’s clinging onto Millie’s hand as if she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. In all honesty, Pansy thinks she might be. Theodore Nott is – and always has been – a pale, scrawny boy with strange eyes and a sullen temper combined with the double affliction of a stammer and an atrocious northern accent. Next to him, Millie looks solid and steady and capable of snapping him like a twig if she wanted to. They _should_ look odd together, and Pansy can vaguely recall thinking that they _did_ look odd back in first year when they first started gravitating towards each other. She can remember teasing them; something about fat Millie Bulstrode only being good enough for a weaselly little weirdo like Nott, most likely, though she can’t quite remember the specifics. Millie and Theo probably can, but she isn’t going to ask them. Not now and not ever.

There’s a silence when Theo finishes. There usually is – not because he’s especially profound, but more because it takes everyone a moment to translate him – and Pansy can practically _hear_ the Knut drop. Blaise’s eyes grow round and Draco shifts awkwardly on the bed next to her. 

“Your parents are going to kill you,” Draco says after a moment.

“Not _me_ ,” Millie says. “The baby, definitely. Theo as well, most likely. I’ll probably be packed off to live in the countryside and live out my days as a spinster aunt.”

A year or two ago, it would have been different. They might have been separated or they might have been married off in a hurry; either way, Millie’s life probably would have been forfeit. While _her_ family would stop at killing the baby, Theo’s father…

Pansy hadn’t needed the war to figure out that not all of her father’s political allies were good people. Men like her father and Lucius Malfoy might have given the impression that the Dark was led by noblemen with noble causes, but just meeting Theo Nott had been enough to dispel that long before she’d seen the Carrows in action. 

Millie wouldn’t have survived her first week at the Nott estate if they’d been forced to marry before Theodotus Nott’s imprisonment.

She shivers and shoves those thoughts to the back of her mind. “I’m sure we can all agree that isn’t an option,” she says, lifting her chin and glancing around the room. 

Millie looks more like a hungry tiger than an expectant mother, her expression threatening dismemberment to anyone who might threaten the unborn life within her. Next to her, Nott has his free hand curled lightly around the pale wood of his wand. Another threat – this time from someone who survived seventeen years under the thumb of the Dark Lord’s pet sociopath. Gods below, but their baby will be capable of defending itself, if nothing else.

Tracey and Daphne look much the same as Pansy imagines she does: proud and determined and resolute in their decision to help as much as they can whether or not anyone actually wants them to. Blaise…it’s hard to tell with him, sometimes, given that he’s about as communicative as a wall, but there’s a glint in his dark eyes that looks promising. She glances to her left. Draco is biting his lower lip, his brow furrowed in thought; unlike Blaise, she can read him like a book. He’s on their side. She knows it.

“We’re going to draw attention,” he says slowly. “If we band together for anything.”

He’s got a point. Against her will, her eyes are drawn once again to the empty beds in the room. The teachers barely hide their contempt for them; their House is more insular than ever, and even more estranged from the rest of the school. Pansy closes her eyes and tries not to remember the little ones crying as they’d huddled in the dark of the dungeons, unable to fight and unable to escape. 

“Well,” Daphne says, her voice sounding forced and breathless. “If Saint Potter starts snooping around, we’ll leave it to you to distract him.”

Pansy smiles, opening her eyes. “Indeed, Draco,” she says. “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to… _investigate_ you.”

He blushes. “Shut up, both of you,” he says. “You know that I’m right.”

“We do,” Pansy assures him. She reaches out and curls her fingers around his. A year ago, she’d thought her life would be by his side: acting the loyal friend and attractive beard while raising his children. Now, she doesn’t think that she could live like that and she knows for sure that Draco can’t: he’s a terrible liar and she loves him for it. “We just think that the unresolved sexual tension would put him off the scent.”

He scowls at her and pulls his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his pointed chin as if he hasn’t turned scarlet. “ _Even if_ that works on Potter – which it _won’t_ \- that still leaves the rest of the school, including the staff.”

“I daresay I’m ugly enough to avoid some suspicion,” Millie says drily. Pansy raises an eyebrow at that but concedes that she might have a point – while Millie isn’t _actually_ malformed in any way, she’s large in every possible dimension. She’s tall and broad-shouldered and, while puberty has done a good job of shifting her weight around to create some truly dramatic curves, the fact remains that she’s fat and plain-faced and probably strong enough to successfully arm-wrestle Hagrid. And while Millie isn’t ugly, her general largeness tends to give people the impression that she is, which will in turn grant her some leeway with their shallow and vapid schoolfellows.

Heaven forbid the fat person find love and happiness and sexual gratification before anyone else.

“Pregnancy weight is different from, er, regular weight,” Tracey says. “That excuse won’t last forever.”

“But look at how flattering the cut of our robes are,” Blaise argues. “It’s one shape fits all, remember? Quite frankly, everyone who has breasts looks like they’re wearing a tent unless they also happen to have invested in a tailor. Let out some of the stitching and Bulstrode could successfully hide a dragon under there.”

Millie – thankfully – looks more entertained than offended. She grew out of being upset about her size in fourth year when Madame Maxime made having the build of a giantess look chic. 

“Aside from that, it should be a case of simply running interference, shouldn’t it?” Pansy asks. “Making sure you make all of your Healer appointments and keep on top of your schoolwork and all that.”

…

“Muggles have a saying,” Tracey says. “It takes a village to raise a child.”

It’s early April and Millie’s robes have been let out to hide the growing swell of her stomach. No one appears to have noticed anything odd: Pansy’s heard the odd comment on how ‘Bulstrode’s let herself go’, but so far Millie’s confidence in peoples’ perceptions of her unattractiveness has proved justified. Blaise’s commentary about the fit of their school robes has also proved accurate – with the stitching let out, the drape of Millie’s robes over the swell of her breasts definitely hides the roundness of her belly.

They’re sitting together on the grass, enjoying the spring sunlight while studying. But it isn’t _just_ NEWT textbooks spread out around them. There’s more than one book on maternity charms being carted around – Pansy has one of them cradled in her lap, and she knows fine well that Theo’s got one too – so Tracey’s comment isn’t entirely apropos of nothing even if she is the only one of them who really knows anything about Muggles and their sayings.

Pansy had always been taught that childrearing was the duty of House Elves, and that parenting was a wonderful boon as you could just hand the child to the help after you felt like you were done for the day. She has to admit, even if just to herself, that the Muggle way sounds nicer.

“We’re not a village,” Blaise says – ever the pedant.

“House, then,” Tracey argues. 

“And I’m sure you’ll all make a truly terrifying set of godparents, but I’m not about to give birth any time soon, and I’m _trying_ to figure out what in the seven _hells_ this assignment is supposed to be,” Millie grumbles.

She’s edging into her seventh month now. Frankly, it’s a miracle that no one _has_ figured it out, but Pansy’s heard everything from “death cult” to “Dark Arts” used as excuses for their strange behaviour. Not pregnancy; never pregnancy – not even in regards to the rest of the group. After all, Daphne and Tracey have made _their_ relationship perfectly clear, and Pansy has been relegated to “heartless bitch” status ever since she dared to suggest that the school might be safer if Potter gave in to the Dark Lord’s demands.

Not her proudest moment, even if Potter probably would have survived.

She watches as Theo leans closer, tilts his head to peer at Millie’s parchment – resting his head on her bicep as he does so. 

He’ll be an excellent mother, Pansy thinks to herself. Gods know he certainly isn’t the one who wears the trousers in _that_ relationship.

“Godparents, hmm?” she asks. “All of us?”

“Stop fishing, Parkinson,” Millie tells her. She glances up, and even though she’s scowling there’s still a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “ _Yes_ , all of you.”

…

Potter is suspicious. _Everyone_ is suspicious. It’s definitely a good thing that their group includes Draco the Reformed Death Eater and Pansy the Heartless in its number, because with them around there’s no way in hell that anyone’s going to suspect Millicent Bulstrode _or_ Theodore Nott of being the real troublemakers. 

It pays to have a reputation for casual sadism or, as the case may be, for being in service to a genocidal lunatic. On occasion. Hiding an impending baby-arrival being one such occasion. 

A chalkboard has made an appearance in the boys’ dormitory, tallying points as to who the school thinks is the most likely culprit for whatever evil is sure to be enacted upon them. Blaise’s sense of humour at work… at the top of the board is _Voted Most Likely to Destroy the World_ written in elaborate cursive. Currently, Draco is leading by twelve points.

Thirteen. He places another mark under his name in vibrant green chalk.

“Footsteps behind me in the hallway when I could have sworn I was alone, and an eavesdropping charm,” he says. He sounds almost triumphant. “Disabled now, of course.”

“Breaking out the invisibility cloak? You’ll be back to cursing each other in bathrooms in no time,” Pansy tells him. He makes a rude gesture in her direction and drops down next to her on his bed. 

“Or fucking,” Daphne says. “Please just skip to the fucking this time.”

“Don’t get pregnant,” is Blaise’s helpful advice. “We can’t handle two of you.”

Millie, ensconced on Theo’s bed, with her head in her boyfriend’s lap, snorts with laughter. “What are the odds on their magic being _that_ compatible?” she asks.

“It’s _Potter_ ,” Blaise replies. 

Draco sniffs. “I hate you all,” he says.

…

She’s with the other girls in the bathroom on the fourth floor when Granger confronts them. Granger and She-Weasley both. It’s almost _funny_ how they zero in on Pansy as she’s leaning over the sink, curling her eyelashes with her wand. Millie, leaning against the wall next to her and looking bored, might as well be invisible even though she towers over all of them and weighs about as much as a hippogryph. Millie is not easily missed, except, it seems, by rabid Gryffindors in the pursuit of justice. 

Or something.

Pansy doesn’t really catch most of what Granger accuses her of. It’s not important. She knows fine well that, this time, she’s truly innocent and that, honestly, the most sinister part of all of this is that the eighth year Slytherins have taken to travelling around the school in a pack. No one has been hurt. No one has gone missing. No one’s written threatening messages on the wall in chicken blood, which is a damn sight better than anything She-Weasley could say for herself.

She waits for Granger to run out of steam before yawning, deliberately, and spelling her makeup to set in place. She turns to Millie.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Fabulous as always,” Millie replies, not even looking at her. She’s examining her nails and looking like she’s trying not to laugh – Pansy can’t blame her. She’s _right there_. The cause of all the suspicious behaviour is _right there_ and she might as well be under an invisibility cloak.

“Beautiful, darling,” Daphne purrs from behind her. “Oh, what a Queen you’ll make.”

Granger’s eyes bug slightly. Pansy sighs, and glances over her shoulder to flash Daphne her very best coy smile because _this_ is _definitely_ another tally mark under her name on their scoreboard. “I’m glad _you_ appreciate me, dearest,” she says. “Nice chat, Granger.”

She enjoys the offended inhale as she sweeps past far more than she actually should. 

…

She sits next to Millie in St Mungo’s and taps her fingers on her thigh. The hospital is never a happy place to sit and wait. She cradles her Potions textbook on her lap and tries to read what she can, but. But. She’s so sick of studying that she thinks she hates the English language. She definitely hates the professors. And their education system. And the _war_ for making sure that, on top of everything else, they had to stay in school for another _year_ to have any worthwhile qualifications.

Still, there’s no way she wouldn’t be here today. 

Millie’s obstetrician has gorgeous blue eyes and a crooked smile. He’s been perfectly charming throughout the entire pregnancy so far, untroubled by Millie’s age and situation. He’s been supportive, kind, and really rather lovely, and even if Pansy didn’t have an invested interest in all going well with Baby Nott, she thinks she would have liked him anyway.

He doesn’t have a magical family name. He’s – at best – a halfblood. Even though she was raised to care, Pansy can only find that she doesn’t. Pureblood morality would have led to the termination of her future godchild, after all, and there’s a special form of magic in the feel of Baby Nott moving and kicking under Millie’s skin.

Millie grips her hand when the door opens, and Pansy stands with her to enter the office. She and the other girls have all played chaperone over the months; the boys can’t. Instead, they run distractions in school and the village so that no one notices two of their number are missing; they cover the apparition points so that Millie and her companion du jour aren’t observed coming or going. 

This far into Millie’s pregnancy, they’re better than clockwork – and none of them are anywhere near relaxed enough about the situation to be caught.

NEWTs are in four weeks. Baby Nott is due in six. They’re going to be cutting things fine. Daphne and Draco have been putting their heads together and planning some sort of handfasting ceremony for the fifth week so that Baby won’t be born out of wedlock, provided that it cooperates and remains where it’s supposed to for the next month and a half.

Just thinking about all of this has given Pansy a permanent headache. 

The appointment goes smoothly, however, and Healer Mitchell gives them photographs at the end, just like he always does. Baby Nott is a blur of white and grey on a dark background, shifting and writhing in an infinite loop. Healer Mitchell smells of sandalwood and disinfectant when he leans over to point out the shape of the skull and the spine, and once Pansy deciphers those, she can see the rest. Delicate hands and the curve of a button nose.

“Still not very revealing about gender, I’m afraid,” Healer Mitchell says. “Little one doesn’t seem to want us to know.”

“That’s… that’s not a problem,” Millie says. Her voice is low and soft with wonder, and she’s got a hand pressed to the swell of her stomach.

Pansy thinks of the gender-neutral clothing that they’ve all been spending their spare galleons on. A baby reluctant to uncross its legs for the scanning spell has just given them an excuse to buy plenty of things in Slytherin green.

“Have you chosen names?” she asks, the thought occurring suddenly.

Millie shakes her head. 

…

Granger, again. A bathroom, again. Pansy grips the porcelain edge of the sink and tries not to sneer. Granger’s wand is in her hand and there’s a light in her eyes that Pansy hasn’t seen before, but that she suspects has much to do with the word _Mudblood_ that’s carved into Granger’s arm and visible where the short sleeve of her Muggle garment has ridden up to reveal it. Pansy takes a slow, deep breath and forces her anger down. She’s so _sick_ of this. But with only a few weeks left, Millie is relying on her to keep her temper and – 

And she’s so much closer to her yearmates now. The Slytherin eighth years are closer and happier than they’ve ever been. They rely on each other. They _trust_ each other. 

Pansy _refuses_ to be the one to break that, no matter what Granger does.

“There are spells, you know, that would make you tell the truth,” Granger says.

“I know,” Pansy says quietly, because Draco and Theo aren’t the only ones with parents in Azkaban. “They’re all very illegal, Granger. What _would_ the Headmistress say if she knew one of her darling heroes was contemplating the Dark Arts.”

“I’m sure she’d understand, under the circumstances,” Granger replies. She lifts her chin and, really, she’s rather attractive when she’s defiant. Pansy can almost see the appeal. But that doesn’t mean that she’s _right_.

She doesn’t ask what the circumstances are. Slytherins being friendly with each other is apparently one of the signs of the apocalypse.

“Slippery slope, that,” she says. Her hand aches from gripping the sink, but she knows that if she lets go then the first thing she’ll be reaching for is her wand and _that_ will end in disaster. Instead, she lets her lips curl into a taunting smile – the one she used on Draco when they were children and he was being insufferable (as always) – and she tips her head to the side. “Using Dark Arts for the ‘greater good’ was Grindelwald’s game, wasn’t it?”

Granger’s wand dips, just a fraction, as she shudders. But she recovers quickly and re-aims for Pansy’s clavicle. “That’s not the same at all,” she says. “You’re up to something, Parkinson. All of you are. And _you_ are going to tell me what.”

There’s a pale blue light building at her wand-tip and it’s luck that Pansy recognises it; that she can counter it. Pansy brings up her Occlumency shields and sends her thoughts scattering far away from Millie and from Hogwarts. She sends them back in time to the lake behind the Malfoys’ French chateau where she’d nearly drowned. She remembers the water flooding her lungs and the way her hair had looked in the green light as it floated up around her. She forces herself to remember the odd peacefulness that had pressed in on her mind as her lungs _burned_ and when Granger breaks into her mind, she makes sure that all she can see is that moment of near-death.

Granger withdraws, gasping.

Pansy smiles sweetly. “Done?” she asks. She forces her fingers to uncurl and she steps forward. Using Legillimency outside of a DMLE interrogation carries a five-year Azkaban sentence, and it’s such a _shame_ that their combined reputations mean that no one would ever believe her if she chose to press charges. “Only, I’m going to be late for Runes.”

…

Blaise arrives in their common room with a split lip and a puffy eye. There’s a dangerous look on his face as he sweeps up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory to add a tally mark under his name. 

Daphne and Tracey march in not long after, trembling with fury. There are tear tracks on Tracey’s cheeks and of course - _of course_ \- the do-gooders of the school have forgotten that she’s a halfblood. That she, out of all of them, would be the least likely to ever have supported the Dark Lord.

Theo, having developed a passing competency at medi-wizardry over the years, heals the long gash up her arm without a word. It doesn’t leave a scar. By his side, Millie is shaking with suppressed anger and pressing her hand to her side where Baby Nott is kicking. Theo heals Blaise next, and then Draco as soon as he limps in.

Pansy _hates_. She hates so _much_. She knows fine well that they all do – just as she knows that if they’d been Hufflepuffs attempting this, then they would have been fine. She doesn’t think that she’s ever been so angry or so scared; not when Voldemort was camped outside the castle walls, nor when she was dragged down into cold water by spindly fingers.

In any other situation, they would be heading straight to their Head of House, but Slughorn treats them all with much the same wariness as the rest of the school these days, and Millie would be expelled as soon as they did. There’s no point in trying – especially if they don’t want all their efforts to go to waste.

Their first exams are the day after tomorrow. If the Gryffindors don’t succeed, then the stress might just kill them all anyway.

…

Seating arrangements. Bloody _seating arrangements_. Parkinson, Patil, Patil, Perks, _Potter_. The back of her neck is prickling from the way he keeps staring at her like he’s trying to look into her head. For all she knows, he might be trying, but she’s got her Occlumency shields up and a NEWT-level Transfiguration paper in front of her. 

Newt would be an awfully fitting name for a baby, she thinks. It worked for Mr Scamander, didn’t it? She shoves the thought out of her mind and tries to focus. Differential relativity. She can do this. She _knows_ this one.

Potter is still staring at her, and it’s only the knowledge that it wouldn’t make him stop that keeps her from turning around and screaming “I’m sorry I suggested we sacrifice you” at him. Her fingers clench around her quill and she bites her lip as she forces herself to start writing. In front of her, Theo is bent over his own exam, scribbling away like he’s a man possessed. Of course, Transfiguration is his best subject next to History, and he’s probably nearly finished. But she envies him his focus right now. He’s been…magnificently calm throughout this entire experience. Throughout _everything_ , from trolls in the dungeon to the Dark Lord to impending fatherhood.

She wonders, briefly, if Theo is even capable of panic or if his father managed to beat it out of him.

She shakes her head. _Focus_. And as words turn into sentences, the world drops away and the exam is the only thing that matters.

After everything, it’s pretty wonderful to just be able to focus on her education.

…

Pregnancy has done wonders for Millie’s hair, if nothing else. Her Housemate is bloated and grumpy and just as aggressively belligerent as she’s always been, only now with added cravings for peaches and curries. But her _hair_.

She usually wears it shoved back into an untidy ponytail. There is, she’s always relished in telling them, “no point in polishing a turd” – and while Millie’s never been ugly, she isn’t conventionally attractive and sees little point in trying to be. But, as Daphne snarled at her this morning, it’s her Handfasting-day, and that means some effort should be involved.

‘Some effort’ has Pansy’s fingers entwined in soft, chestnut strands, so she’s not complaining about being roped into this. Not at all. Baby Nott deserves legitimacy, and Millie should have pretty hair on her Handfasting. It’s the principle of the thing.

She twists Millie’s hair into long braids before twirling them up and pinning them into place, creating elaborate loops in one of the secret languages that all proper witches learn at their mothers’ knees. Millie’s braids mean true love, first love, perseverance, and trust – all the things she and Theo have together. All the things that Pansy wants for herself but that, if she’s honest, she knows she’ll never have. 

It’s not bitterness if it’s an acceptance of the truth.

There’s a sad kind of hilarity about the lot of them donning dark, hooded cloaks to slip out of the school in the early hours of the morning. They creep through corridors and out into the grounds, heading straight for the Apparition point just outside the gates. They’re giggling – all of them – because dressing like their own nightmares for a celebration is unreal. 

Pansy grabs onto Draco’s hand as they rush across the dew-soaked morning. He flashes her a grin from beneath his hood that’s completely at odds from the face he’d made when he’d picked his cloak up in the first place. She grins back at him, emotion surging in her breast, making her ribs feel too small and her feet too light. She hasn’t run around like this since she was a little girl, and she drags Draco into a half-skipping sort of pace for the sheer nostalgia of it. She’s not seen him this happy in years; hasn’t been this happy herself, and she adds her voice to the collective cheer that goes up as they race together over the ward-line.

…

They hadn’t been subtle when they left. It occurs to Pansy now, looking at the gathering of teachers and students in front of them, that they should have been. But. The stress and anxieties of the last few months culminating with the end of their exams had been enough to make them throw caution to the wind. And it doesn’t really matter, anyway: Millie’s sat her NEWTs now. She’s done the exams and she’ll get the qualifications regardless of whether she’s now expelled.

Expulsion is looking likely, judging by the expression on McGonagall’s face. Arrests too, she thinks. The Aurors that have been called in look particularly unforgiving this morning.

“Well, bugger,” Millie comments from behind her, and Pansy can’t help it. She can’t. She giggles helplessly, raising her hand to cover her mouth as her shoulders shake and her knees turn weak.

The ceremony had been beautiful. Theo and Millie had let their magic bind without any hesitation, and Pansy doesn’t think she’ll ever see another Handfasting quite like it. They’re _meant_ for each other, those two, and if their being together is what will give Pansy a criminal record, then she can’t help but think it’ll be worth it.

“I fail to see what is so amusing, Miss Parkinson,” McGonagall says. The ice in her tone is so completely at odds with what the rest of the morning has been like, that Pansy can’t help but react. She straightens up, lets her laughter fade, and as her yearmates move closer to her, she gains strength from the knowledge that they’ll have her back. They’ll all have each other’s backs. They have, whatever happens now, succeeded in what they set out to do.

“Sorry, Professor,” she replies, infusing her response with as much confusion as possible. “I simply wasn’t expecting such a crowd.”

Granger is there. Of _course_ Granger is there. Her spiteful little eyes are screwed up in malevolence, like she _wants_ the worst to happen and Pansy feels a surge of pure hatred for her. Next to her, Potter’s expression of complete unconcern looks almost comical, and as soon as she sees him, Pansy knows.

She checks Draco with her hip. “You terrible boy,” she murmurs under her breath, and from the corner of her eye she sees his cheeks flush.

“We don’t understand, Professor,” Daphne says. “We’re entitled to leave school grounds. All seventh and eighth-year students are, once they’re of age.”

“That is beside the point, Miss Greengrass,” McGonagall says. “I have been inundated, for months, with worrying reports of your behaviour, culminating in your decision to flee the school this morning, cackling madly and dressed in…” She cuts herself off, waving a hand expressively at the dark cloaks draped around their shoulders.

“It was rather cold this morning,” Blaise says, deadpan.

“And the stress of NEWTs must have got to us,” Tracey continues. “We’re so sorry if we disturbed anyone.”

They aren’t sorry. Not a single one of them.

Pansy glances over the array of faces in front of her. Their audience – half of them have their wands ready. The ones that don’t… Longbottom, Thomas, the Patils, they all seem to be taking their cue from Potter, who’s just standing there watching them like they’re the most entertaining thing available this morning.

“And where, might we ask, did you go?” Professor Slughorn asks, cutting in front of the Headmistress to confront them.

It’s at times like this that Pansy misses Snape. He was an awful, disgusting man, but he supported them. He defended them. Slughorn’s been just as bad as everyone else.

“We were at a wedding, Professor,” Pansy admits, because there’s really no point in lying. After all, the registrar will provide them with a perfect alibi when – inevitably – their story is checked out. “A Handfasting, actually.”

Two of the Aurors disapparate. No doubt to _check_. Goodness, how predictable.

Either way, it clearly wasn’t the answer that anyone was expecting, but Pansy doesn’t care. She really doesn’t. Can’t bring herself to try, either, so she simply raises an eyebrow at the curious looks they’re getting and she shrugs.

“It was quite a lovely ceremony,” she says. “Nothing to be so concerned about. I apologise if, perhaps, you got the wrong impression.”

They’re allowed in, after that. It’s not exactly a victory because they’re escorted up to McGonagall’s office by the teachers and Aurors, while the other students stand back and watch them go. She smiles at Potter as she passes him; winks. And as she walks away with her head held high, she hears Granger round on him in fury.

…

“Pregnant,” McGonagall says. 

“Yes Professor,” Millie replies. 

McGonagall looks stunned. A little appalled, actually. Millie just sits back in her chair and rests her hands on her belly and smiles that vicious, tiger smile. Theo, as ever, is by her side, and Pansy can’t help but look at them and think they might be unstoppable. For all that they aren’t touching; for all that they’re in separate armchairs with a gap between them large enough for a person to fit through, their togetherness is curse-proof. If, as Dumbledore thought, love was the power that could stop a Dark Lord, then Theo and Millie should be enough to end all wars forever.

Dumbledore himself is peering down at them all from his portrait. In paint, his eyes are nowhere near twinkly enough, but he seems amused. Draco, his would-be murderer, keeps shifting awkwardly.

“Pregnant,” McGonagall says again.

“Thirty-nine weeks,” Millie tells her, and McGonagall goes pale. If she decides _not_ to throw Millie out, then Baby Nott will most likely be born at Hogwarts. Pansy tries to picture Millie going into labour and then immediately shoves the thought aside. There are some nightmares she never wants to witness.

“You –“

Millie doesn’t let her get very far. “We knew it was against school rules, Professor, but I did very much want to sit my NEWTs,” she says. Pansy wonders if anyone else can hear the sarcastic _“Gods know why”_ that she manages to leave off the end. The NEWTs were a joy and a blessing and _everyone_ is glad to be done with them. “So,” Millie continues, “the others agreed to help me hide my, ah, condition long enough to take them.”

“We organised the Handfasting too,” Daphne interjects. 

“Intercepted Gryffindors out for blood,” Blaise murmurs.

“We worked as a team so that our friend wouldn’t lose out,” Tracey says. She scoots forward in her seat, looking so sweet and earnest that it’s a blatant lie. “After all, we knew that the baby wasn’t due until after the exams, and it would have been such a shame for all of Millie’s hard work this year and last to be wasted.”

The mention of the previous year has ice creeping back into McGonagall’s expression, but even she can’t deny that Millie had kept herself out of it. She was a pureblood, yes, and she was from a Dark family, but the Bulstrodes hadn’t been the Dark Lord’s biggest supporters, and the most Millie had done was keep her head down and feign stupidity when the Carrows asked her if she knew where that “filthy halfblood Davies” or any of the DA were. 

The Carrows had been easy enough to trick. Not least because of their own stupidity, but also because they – like the rest of the world – underestimated Millie because of how she looked.

As for Theo… Well, there’s that wonderful double-standard of it all being the girl’s fault if someone gets pregnant, isn’t there. Most of the staff members present seem to be trying to pretend that he doesn’t exist.

“So that’s it,” Millie says. “No big, evil plot. No Dark Arts. Just a baby.” 

…

Isadora Heather Nott, isn’t just a baby.

She’s a red, wrinkled monster when she arrives, screaming her way into the world. She grouches and grumps into a doze, resting on Millie’s chest, and she scowls in her sleep whenever anyone tries to shift the swaddling blankets long enough to look at her. She’s a bit scrawny, like her father, but with an obvious bad temper inherited from her mother.

Pansy strokes her finger down the length of Isadora’s little button nose, and she smiles helplessly. She’s in love with this tiny human already – they all are.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider buying me [a coffee!](http://ko-fi.com/evandar)


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